


Entre le passé et l'avenir

by vivelarepublique



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, And is friends with Prouvaire, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Victor Hugo meets the Amis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelarepublique/pseuds/vivelarepublique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire is one to wander to the streets of Paris, and he inevitably finds himself drawn to Notre-Dame-de-Paris. It is at the cathedral that he meets a fellow Romantic, none other than Victor Hugo himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entre le passé et l'avenir

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a part of the Midsummer Mini Mis Fest on Tumblr. Spicehobbit did a lovely drawing to accompany it, which can be seen [here](http://minimisfest.tumblr.com/post/89446280505/entre-le-passe-et-lavenir-fic-by-vivelarepublique).
> 
> Warnings for canonical violence and character death.

In the aftermath of the July Revolution, the atmosphere at the Café Musain was far from pleasant. Enjolras’ face, in the past few days having been bright with promise and even more revolutionary fervor than usual, was now darkened. Even Joly’s usual bright smile was nowhere to be found. The only constants seemed to be the Amis’ gathering together at all and Grantaire taking gulps from a bottle of red wine in the back, though even he saved his snark for another day.

Jean Prouvaire looked around at all of them and let out a long sigh. No banter was going to be exchanged today. He quietly took his leave. Feuilly had already left for work, and Combeferre gave him a tired smile and a small nod as he raised his hand in farewell.

The streets were quiet that evening as Prouvaire wandered them with no particular destination in mind. He found himself at the Seine, its murky waters stirred slightly by a breeze. As if carried by the wind itself, Prouvaire was soon in the shadow of Notre-Dame, whose various grotesques and gargoyles set strange shadows about the structure. Only days ago had the Amis taken the area here, only days ago had a republic seemed so close.

He let his hand brush against the stone of the cathedral, surprisingly cool for the warm July evening, and let his mind drift.

“How many revolutions have you seen come and go?” He whispered to the walls.

When the bells began to toll twelve, Prouvaire was snapped out of his reveries. He hurried home absently, his foggy mind vaguely musing that Notre-Dame may yet see a republic.

*

Time passed and life went back to normal, as normal as life could be when you were a student in a revolutionary organization. As much as the Amis kept him busy, Prouvaire found himself spending hours musing and writing poetry in and around Notre-Dame in the following months. When Bahorel asked him why he spent so much time in the crumbling cathedral, Prouvaire had to pause for a moment to think.

“There’s something about the soul of the structure. I feel it has many stories to tell.”

Bahorel smiled at him broadly, showing a few missing teeth, and clapped him on the shoulder, sending up a small cloud of dust from the shoulder of Prouvaire’s brightly hued doublet. “It suits you.”

Prouvaire smiled back, and then resumed an ongoing conversation he had been having with Joly about the sagacity that must lurk behind the aura of apathy cats emitted. But despite the distraction of conversation, he found himself looking over his shoulder at the pane of glass on the far wall, pittering with rain. Though the cathedral was not in sight, Prouvaire felt its pull.

It was a stormy August afternoon, but Prouvaire resolved himself to brave the rain, regardless of his friends’ objections and pleas to stay and wait for the rain to pass.

“Surely you can write just as well in the company of friends, sheltered from the storm,” Courfeyrac had said, arm over Prouvaire’s shoulders, face only slightly flushed from drink.

“And the downpour is sure to mess with your circulation,” Joly’s brow furrowed. “Do you still have those magnets I gave you?”

Prouvaire let out a light laugh, brushed Courfeyrac’s arm off, and gave the two a smile. “Yes Joly, I do,” and before Joly could interrupt, “But these ballads won’t write themselves.” And with that Prouvaire slipped out, not without hearing Courfeyrac sigh dramatically about how he could never be a poet and Joly begin to tap his cane worriedly on the floorboards as he let the door close behind him.

The rain had calmed down momentarily to a light drizzle when Prouvaire stepped into the rue des Grés, careful to avoid any puddles in the uneven cobblestones, drawing his cloak, a birthday gift from Combeferre, over his doublet to keep the linen as dry as he could.

His effort was a valiant one, but when he arrived at Notre-Dame, he was shivering, the rain, with help of the wind, having quite thoroughly soaked him. He took shelter in a battered portal, its marred façade evidence of another revolution the cathedral had seen decades earlier, and pushed open a door and stepped into the cathedral.

Each time he saw it, it never failed to take his breath away.

The smooth, curved arches that seems to soar, the statues hidden in various alcoves, every part of the cathedral seemed to hold secrets that Prouvaire yearned to discover.

The glass panes cast soft gray light across the pews. Prouvaire looked up at them, and wondered what it would have been like to be there, centuries before, when Notre-Dame was new. It was hard to imagine; it seemed the structure had been there forever. A priest gave Prouvaire a wave, used to his visits, as he settled in the middle of a back pew, pulling out a pencil and a small notebook to try and scribble out some lines of verse.

He was trying to think of a word to rhyme with  _"fers"_  when he noticed he wasn't alone. A rather handsome man, seeming to be in his mid to late twenties was looking around the cathedral with an expression of rapture which Prouvaire imagined must be rather similar to how he had looked earlier.

The man sat down on the pew opposite to Prouvaire, and it took all of his self control to not to slide on over and start gushing to him about gothic architecture. He made a mental note to take Combeferre here one day; surely he would have some fascinating insights.

The man seemed to notice Prouvaire now, having looked around the nave long enough to be brought back to reality. Prouvaire figured this was enough invitation as any, and quietly padded over to the pew where the man sat.

“May I join you?” He whispered. Though he was not a religious person, something about the cathedral made him feel he should be reverent, talk in whispers, so as not to disturb the atmosphere.

The man nodded slowly. Prouvaire sat beside him, tucking his notebook back into his pocket.

“My name is Jean Prouvaire. I also go by Jehan.” He extended a hand in greeting and the man shook it carefully.

“My name is Victor Hugo. Nice to meet you, Prouvaire.”

Prouvaire was speechless for a moment. “Victor Hugo?  _The_ Victor Hugo?”

The man gave a wry smile. “That is my name.”

“I-I-I-I don’t know what to say!” Prouvaire’s head seemed to be spinning. “I’ve read your  _Odes et poésies diverses,_ well, I don’t know how many times! Cour--My friend Courfeyrac was at the premiere of  _Hernani!”_

“I assume if you mention it, he was not one of the ones who hated it?”

Prouvaire gave a laugh. “Not at all. We thought it was brilliant. And I liked some of the themes of your ode that was in  _Le Globe_  last week.”

“Some?”

“Well, En--my friend Enjolras and I liked the idea of a freer France, but Bonaparte is not quite the image we associate with that idea.”

“Well, without Bonaparte we would not be where we are today. Even this very cathedral may not be here as it is.”

Prouvaire looked around, at the white-washed walls and empty niches, where beautiful statues must once had been. “Yes, she was...marred in the past.”

“Notre-Dame is covered with scars.”

“She is still beautiful.” Prouvaire grew pensive. Hugo was quiet, and let the young man in anachronistic clothing speak, “I don’t believe art such as this should suffer so that the future may come, but the past shapes the present which we must change in order to bring about a better future. For as much as man destroys, he can also create.”

“You speak like a poet.”

“Well, that is reassuring, as I am one.” Prouvaire’s face flushed a bit.

“So have you come to Notre-Dame seeking inspiration?”

“You could say that,” Prouvaire replied. “I like the feel of the place.”

Hugo nodded. “I understand that. I would say I am here seeking inspiration, but it is more of a break for me.”

“Oh?”

“I am quite behind on my manuscript for my publisher, so I have been working non-stop on trying to finish it.”

“If I may ask, what are you writing about?”

Hugo extended his arms and made a wide, sweeping gesture about him. “About Notre-Dame-de-Paris.”

The two talked for hours on end, so long so, that a priest had to kindly ask them to relocate their conversation elsewhere. When they stepped outside, the rain had long stopped, leaving only a clear, almost cool night in its wake.

“Well, I must be off. Mme. Hugo will think I’ve gone missing.”

“Bahorel will probably still be out playing dominoes...” Prouvaire said, head tilted a bit in thought.

“Oh, to be a student!” Hugo laughed, and with a wave set off toward the Right Bank.

Prouvaire watched in awe for a moment at the man’s retreating form before dashing off back to his apartment. As he tried to fall asleep, his mind raced. The next evening’s meeting at the Musain could not come quickly enough.

*

“You met  _who?”_  Courfeyrac gasped.

“Victor Hugo,” Prouvaire said smugly.

“What did he say to you?” Joly piped in.

“What did he look like?” Lesgle added.

“Did he say anything about how he felt about Louis-Philippe?” Enjolras said coolly.

Prouvaire’s head span. He collected himself and began to answer. “We talked about Notre-Dame. And poetry. He told me a bit about the book he’s writing. And he looked, well, like an ordinary man really. More handsome, actually a bit like Enjolras, except older, with dark hair. And better dressed.” He paused a moment. “And he didn’t say anything about Louis-Philippe.”

Enjolras gave a slow nod. “I would be interested to see what M. Hugo’s thoughts on the people’s current state of oppression under yet another monarch.”

Combeferre spoke up from his spot at Enjolras’ side. “After reading  _Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné,_  I too would be very interested to speak to M. Hugo. You are lucky man, Prouvaire.” He smiled, candlelight twinkling off his glasses.

*

“Come where?” Hugo asked.

“To the Café Musain! My friends would love to meet you.”

The two were walking along the Seine. Meeting up had gone from a happy accident to a semi-regular occurrence. Prouvaire liked the walks to think and write and Hugo liked them to clear his mind and take a break from writing.

“Well, man must eat...”

Prouvaire’s heart soared. The two started towards the café, chatting about assorted topics along the way. Hugo mentioned a strange sect of an old convent located within the city which fascinated Prouvaire; Prouvaire talked of the differences between Italian and French verse. At long last, they arrived at their destination.

Prouvaire wondered how the place looked to someone who didn’t frequent it, tried to remember how clandestine and mysterious the back room seemed upon first being lead into it. The chatter in the back room grew louder as they went, until Prouvaire opened the door, allowing Hugo to step in first, before closing the door behind them.

The room grew quiet at their entrance.

"Hello everyone," Prouvaire began, "this is my friend Victor Hugo, who I was talking about earlier."

The volume of the room swelled as everyone swarmed Hugo to introduce themselves to the writer.

Courfeyrac shook Hugo’s hand energetically, gushing praises for Hernani and rambling about how it had inspired so many of the students. Lesgle was grinning ear to ear saying how this was the luckiest thing that had happened to him in weeks. Combeferre said something quiet that Prouvaire could not quite make out from the bar area, where he was gathering some food and wine, but Hugo seemed impressed by whatever it was.

Only Enjolras and Grantaire hung back, the former waiting for the crowd to disperse, the latter unmoved from his usual spot in the corner.

A few minutes later, the crowd had died down and Enjolras approached Hugo, seeming to shine brighter than ever.

"It's nice to meet you, M. Hugo," Enjolras said, shaking his hand firmly. "Our organization could use your eloquence and support."

"I would be interested in what you have to say. But first, I could use a nice glass of wine and something to eat."

"Hear, hear!" Grantaire's voice came from the corner.

"Grantaire!" Hugo exclaimed in surprise. "Well, if you're here I know there's good food and drink to be found."

Enjolras' head whipped around to Grantaire, his ponytail flying wildly. His mouth was slightly open in disbelief, words failing him for once.

"You never asked," Grantaire said nonchalantly, eyes twinkling as he took another swig from a bottle of wine.

“I’ve seen Grantaire in many a café around the city. He knows the best places.” Grantaire gave a flourish with the bottle in thanks.

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I have no doubt of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re about to begin.”

“Yes, yes, don’t mind me,” Hugo sat down at the nearest table, and Prouvaire took the seat next to him, placing a plate of food and a glass of wine in front of Hugo, who gave a nod in gratitude. Everybody else gradually took their usual spots, Feuilly rushing in at the last minute from work.

“Citizens, as we all know, it has been harder to gather support after the ascension of this so-called ‘citizen king’ to the throne. The self-proclaimed ‘King of the French’ cannot see his own hypocrisy, just as many cannot see past his flimsy façade of democracy. We are told that we live under a freer, more liberal government, but how can any government that the people, by definition, live  _under_  be free? The people must rule themselves, not be shackled by some monarch masquerading as one of them!”

“Louis-Philippe  _is_  one of the people.”

If Enjolras could look startled, his expression was the closest thing to that. He turned his head to meet the unrelenting gaze of Victor Hugo.

“If he ever was one of the people, he abandoned them when he took the throne,” Enjolras retorted.

“The throne is a burden he has to bear. But if you take that away, he is a good man.”

“Just because he is a good man does not mean he has the right to think he is representing the people, a people of which only a privileged few can cast a vote.”

“But the fact that they can vote is thanks to Louis-Philippe.”

“A few bourgeoisie being able to vote means nothing to the poor and destitute,” Enjolras spat. “The working class suffers while Louis-Philippe plays at being a champion of equality.”

“And setting up barricades and exchanging bullets instead of words is supposed to be championing equality?”

Prouvaire shifted in his chair uncomfortably. This conversation, if it could be called that, was not going exactly how he had hoped. Sometimes he forgot how severe Enjolras could be.

“Yes. Yes, it is. We will fight to see a better future realized, even at the cost of our own lives.” Enjolras’ eyes were blazing and everyone else in the room seemed to be holding their breath.

“What good does it do the future if you die, never to see it?”

“A better future is worth dying for.”

Hugo stood up from his chair and Enjolras seemed to shift forward, but Combeferre had stood and swiftly put a firm hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, silently telling him,  _Enough._

“I admire your convictions, even if I do not agree with them or your means of pursuing them. Thank you for the food and food for thought.” With that, he stood and went for the door. Ignoring the buzz growing in the room, Prouvaire rose to follow Hugo out of the room and out in front of the café.

Before Prouvaire could speak, Hugo did. “Your friend is very passionate.”

“That is certainly true. I-”

“No, I am sorry, Prouvaire. I understand where you and your friends are coming from, what you are fighting for, but that is not my fight.”

“But it is everyone’s fight. I’ve read what you’ve wrote, you want the same things we do, you-”

“Maybe I do want the same things you do, Prouvaire, but I am not willing to bring them about as you would. Time will bring the future you foresee when the world is ready for it.”

“But what if we can’t wait that long?”

“I will wait.” There was silence for a moment, then Hugo held out his hand. Prouvaire took it. “Thank you, Jean Prouvaire.”

Prouvaire wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking Hugo for, but it felt right. “Thank you, M. Hugo.” Another pause. Then,  _“Adieu.”_

Hugo let their hands fall apart, then gave a small wave and a slight smile, before setting off towards the Seine once more.

*

From time to time, Jean Prouvaire would find himself thinking about Victor Hugo. He would wonder what he was writing now, how he was doing.

He still went to Notre-Dame, nothing could keep him from doing that, but the air was more melancholy now than it ever was before. Prouvaire could feel in his soul that that phase in his life was over, and nothing could bring it back.

But life went on.

_Notre-Dame-de-Paris_  was published and brought Hugo a great deal of popularity and monetary success, even as rumors were heard that his relationship with his wife had hit rough waters, that she had had an affair with one of his friends. And the success of the novel meant that Notre-Dame which was teeming with tours more often than not, when Prouvaire merely longed for its quiet pensive atmosphere, and, though he would not say it, the company of someone he knew would not be there.

The months flew by, and the Amis’ plans for revolution finally came to a head one hot June day. There was excitement among them, something of 1830 in the air, only, according to Enjolras, it was something bigger.

The first attacks on the barricade were thrilling and terrifying all at once. Prouvaire could write sonnets about them, but concentrated on the action at hand. He heard commotion, and saw Marius had returned.

“Get out of here, or I’ll blow up the barricade!”

“Blow up the barricade?” A guardsman yelled back at him, “And yourself as well!”

“And myself as well.”

Such dramatics! Prouvaire was impressed. He saw the National Guard back down and gave a cheer with the rest of the Amis. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain to the back of his head and everything went black.

It seemed only moments had passed when he came to again. And it truly must have only been moments, as the air was still slightly saturated with smoke. He tried to move but he felt his hands and feet bound with rope. He looked around himself. He was on the wrong side of the barricade. All around him were national guardsmen.

“Alright, boy, what will it be? Tell us your plan of attack, or die.”

Prouvaire remained silent, glaring at them, intrepid to the last.

There was a scuffle as the guardsman took aim.

“Any last words, boy?”

“Vive la France! Vive l’avenir!”

A single gunshot rang out, followed by a moment of silence.

Unbeknownst to Prouvaire, his final words had fallen on an unexpected pair of ears. Trapped in the alleyway next to the national guardsman, Victor Hugo could only listen as the young poet shouted his last words across the Parisian streets, at the foot of the barricade that would be his friends’ grave.

When he was finally able to slip out and stumble back home, no sound rang in Hugo’s head more than the final words of Jean Prouvaire.

*

_June 5-6._

_Uprising of the convoy of Lamarque. Madnesses drowned in blood. One day we will have a republic, and, when she comes of her own accord, she will be good. But we must not pick in May the fruit which will only be ripe in July; we should know to wait. The republic proclaimed by France in Europe, that will be the crown of our white heads._

_Those who fought and died will never see that crown forged; their hair will never be white. They will remain young forever, having fought for a future for which the world is not ready. But we may yet remember these students. They may not be able to finish their last verses, but those who live can yet help them be heard._

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by me at first wanting to write a bit about Victor Hugo meeting Les Amis. Before I knew it, Notre-Dame had entered the scene and Jehan had taken over the fic. This was in part intentional, as I very much saw Jehan in one of Victor Hugo’s poems from one of the books Jehan mentions,  _Odes et poésies diverses_ _,_ “ [ Le poète dans les révolutions ](http://poesie.webnet.fr/lesgrandsclassiques/poemes/victor_hugo/le_poete_dans_les_revolutions.html) .”
> 
> Apologies for my attempt at nineteenth century French politics. I do not quite know what an exchange between a young Hugo and Enjolras would have been like, but Hugo was still a royalist at heart at this point in his life,  [ as much as young Romantics would have liked to think otherwise ](http://books.google.com/books?id=kU9LloPylhQC&pg=PA156&lpg=PA156&dq=victor+hugo+july+revolution&source=bl&ots=QysCUM7G1Y&sig=Scrgjhp8iVmBMBpwBWOnrv4VQ1g&hl=en&sa=X&ei=kOyEU6DbNdGiyAS324HIBw&ved=0CDoQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=victor%20hugo%20july%20revolution&f=false) .
> 
> Most of the chronology of this fic is based on fact. Artistic liberties have been taken, however, as Hugo did not move into his Parisian home at Place des Vosges, where the Victor Hugo House Museum is today, until 1832. And I do not know whether he frequented Notre-Dame-de-Paris, but he did draw inspiration from the physical building for his novel of the same title, so he must have been there at some point! And Hugo was  [ a witness to some action the barricades during the June Uprising ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/June_Rebellion#Hugo_and_Les_Mis.C3.A9rables) , though not necessarily where he set the action in the novel.
> 
> And finally, the second to last paragraph is a rough translation of an excerpt from  [ Hugo’s actual journal ](http://www.worldcat.org/title/journal-1830-1848/oclc/422710686) entry from June 5-6, 1832. The second paragraph is of my own invention.


End file.
